


If Your Fingers Do Not Lie

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunk Sex, F/F, Femslash, Hate Sex, Morning After, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not about sex, Cersei insists. It’s about power. </p><p>Margaery points out the flaw in Cersei’s reasoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Your Fingers Do Not Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Femslash is not usually my speed, but I went ahead and made this as canon compliant as I could. Consider it a missing scene from AFFC, even if this Margaery is more show Margaery than book Margaery. I own nothing.

The sunlight was too bright. Cersei Lannister was certain of that even before she licked her parched lips, her tongue cottony because she’d slept on her back with her head thrown back where her pillow should have been, and slowly opened her eyes. The effort felt like prying flesh from gristle and bone. Her breasts ached, and there was a pleasant feeling between her legs. The person next to her shifted: she would have to scold Jaime for lingering in her bed, risking the dawn would find him there. 

Cersei blinked at the ceiling several times before she was certain: that was not her ceiling. The bed on which she sprawled with a distinct lack of queenly grace was not her bed, and the pillow which had wandered away during the night would prove not to be her pillow once Cersei found it. 

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

Cersei struggled to rouse herself, long, bitter years having taught her that almost any voice she might hear first on waking spelled trouble. Robert was dead, thank the gods. Taena had a distinctive accent. It could not be one of Cersei’s bedmaids, for this was not Cersei’s bed. 

Trouble wore Margaery Tyrell’s face, somewhat less fresh and rosy in the unforgiving light, her brown curls tousled in a way which should not have looked so becoming. There were dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked so young and comely, Cersei gritted her teeth to see it. She pulled most of the covers to her as she struggled to sit up, revealing Margaery’s youthful body. Cersei gritted her teeth harder, until she realized they were making a noise she remembered all too well from the years her goodbrother Stannis had spent at court, and forced herself to stop.

The little Tyrell whore made no effort to cover herself. She lolled on the bed without a scrap of modesty, taunting Cersei with her firm flesh, her rosy-tipped, unveined breasts and creamy, unblemished thighs. 

_Let Tommen grow up and plant a few children in her, she’ll sag and wilt, same as the rest of us._

Cersei knew that something was not right – something far bigger than finding herself in what she remembered now were Margaery Tyrell’s chambers at the Red Keep, next to a naked Margaery, herself naked but for the pale green covers embroidered with thrice-damned roses wrapped around her. 

She scowled at the younger woman. “What did you do to me?” Cersei demanded, summoning up a tone she had often heard her father use. Even sitting down, she felt a little unsteady. She shouldn’t have had so much wine right before sleep. 

Margaery’s delicate eyebrows arched, barely disturbing the placid smoothness of her brow. She rolled onto her side, displaying her breasts to better advantage, and propped herself up on her elbow. Taunting little minx. 

“Are you certain you wish to hear me speak of such matters, Your Grace?” she asked, feigning sweetness and innocence even as she lay there, naked as the sun. Had a man been in Cersei’s place, he’d have ravished the little rose twice by now. The Queen Regent congratulated herself on her self-control.

“You are speaking to your queen and goodmother,” Cersei declared loftily, clad in soiled bedcovers and her dignity as a Lannister of the Rock. “Now answer my question.”

“Forgive me, I should never dream of contradicting you, but I think you’ll find I am queen now. As to what I did, I assure you it was nothing you didn’t beg me to do.” Margaery paused, deliberate as a cat. “Goodmother.”

Cersei’s nostrils flared. “You wanted us to share one more cup of wine. You tricked me. I am certain it was entirely lacking in enjoyment.” She never would have made herself so weak, had she not been drinking. 

Margaery pouted prettily. “You were about to tell me how it has only ever been good with one specific person of your acquaintance, but then we managed to undo the laces on your dress, and you never finished the story. Perhaps you’d like to finish it now.” 

Cersei gained her feet, bedcovers tangling around her legs, and rounded the bedstead to loom over Margaery. Blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy. Blood, like wine, like women’s lips, was red, and red was all Cersei could see.

“Mind your tongue unless you wish to lose it,” she snarled. “I could have you thrown in the black cells for attempting to poison the Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, even if you are queen for the nonce. You must have some powder concealed in this chamber, some enchanting concoction which robs its recipient of their will. It would be easy enough to discover.” It would be easy enough for Qyburn to procure and slip in among Margaery’s things. 

Margaery ran the tip of her pink tongue over her lips, waggled it at Cersei. “There’s your enchantment, Your Grace.” 

Cersei raised her hand: a sharp-nailed slap would mar the little rose’s beauty as surely as an iron brand. 

“Smell your fingers first,” Margaery said quickly, half rising and leaning back, not quite out of Cersei’s reach. “If they lie, you may strike me however you like.” 

Cersei nearly struck her anyway. Keeping a wary eye on the younger woman, she brought her hand down to her nostrils. 

_Seven bloody, perfumed hells._

Cersei was not comforted by the certainty that, if the little rose of Highgarden had reduced a lioness of the Rock to a begging wanton with her tongue, at least Cersei had claimed her rights in turn, as she had done with Taena. As she would rip out all the roses at court by their greedy roots just as soon as that lack-wit Osney Kettleblack did his duty by the realm and his queen. With this very hand, now bearing the rose’s scent, Cersei would uproot them all, all the tough and thorny stems undermining the foundations of her rule!

Cersei gathered an armful of bedcovers close around her.

“You will find that certain games are better left unplayed,” she told Margaery. “A Lannister always pays her debts.” 

That infuriating smirk returned. Cersei wished sorely she had not chosen dignity and could slap the maddening girl after all. 

“I have heard that so many times,” Margaery said, “but I never fully believed it until last night.” She lay back, ran her fingertips deliberately over her breast, up her neck, to her lips. “Your Grace certainly paid her debts, and fourfold.” 

Abandoning her gown and smallclothes where they lay on the floor rather than expose herself to the minx’s taunts while she dressed without a single servant to aid her, Cersei strode to the door and exited the chamber clad only in Tyrell bedcovers, past the green-liveried Tyrell guards and Ser Meryn Trant, cold-eyed and unflinching as ever in his white cloak. He followed Cersei like a good dog, giving none of his mistress’ secrets away despite what he might have heard. The Tyrell guards whispered, their eyes on Cersei as slimy as toads. 

_Let them look_ , Cersei thought. _I am a lioness. I do not cringe for the likes of them._

What two women did together in the dark was never deemed of any account by men, would not come back to threaten Cersei’s position. She needed merely to impart the urgency of the situation to that fool Ser Osney and visit the Great Sept so she could whisper a few words in the High Sparrow’s unwashed ear. Then Margaery would lose her pretty little head as easily as Cersei would wash off her scent and burn these bedcovers in the grate. 

Cersei’s breasts tingled, her knees felt weak, and she imagined she could smell Margaery’s brine on the fingers clutching the covers to her chest. A fancy born of hunger and too much wine. Nothing of any consequence had happened.


End file.
